


I CAN HAZ DESTIEL

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Albanian folklore is crazytown bananapants, Anal Fingering, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, I REGRET NOTHING, I really cannot overemphasize how fluffy this is, M/M, Makeouts, Schmoop, cats are the world's greatest cockblockers, like Tribble levels of fluff, not even that ridiculous title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean settles down by Cas's side, putting an arm around the angel's waist. "So is his name really Rhubarb? Or does he have a secret cat name?"</p><p>“I can’t pronounce his true name with these vocal cords, but it translates roughly to ‘Napper of Mighty Naps and Nibbler of Unguarded Sandwiches.’”</p><p>“I’m not calling you that either, cat,” are Dean’s last words before he falls asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I CAN HAZ DESTIEL

Sam and Dean turn the corner in time to see something orange run under the Impala.

"Goddamn it!" yells Dean. "I thought we took care of the last of 'em!"

"Shhhh," Sam hisses, and he actually makes a shushing motion with his hand, like an enormous Jewish grandmother. "You'll just make it worse." Instead, Sam pitches his voice high and a little overloud, like he's talking to a child, and announces: "Gosh, Dean, I was just thinking: aren't weasels great?"

Dean groans. Sam glares. "Fine," Dean mutters, and adopts the same humiliating tone. "They certainly are! Best animal ever, if you ask me."

"Preachin' to the choir here, man," agrees Sam. They inch towards the Impala, trading emphatic comments about the awesomeness of mustelids; when they reach the car, Sam takes a deep breath and bends down to look.

***

Little-known fact from Albanian folklore: if you're not nice to weasels—even if you just talk smack about them, like say they're sneaky little chicken-killing bastards—they will destroy your clothes. And should you persist in said calumny, they will happily move on to ripping your flesh. 

Which is how Sam and Dean ended up in Paterson, New Jersey, drawn there by the bizarre mauling death ("like hundreds and hundreds of tiny teeth!" said a flummoxed coroner) of one Curtis Granger. The late taxidermist had been best known for whimsical groupings of animals dressed in frilly clothing; apparently his most recent work, depicting a group of weasels in bonnets having a tea party, was simply too much for the pride of the species to bear. When Sam and Dean broke into Granger's house, the animals were still there, dozens of them, stoats and ferrets and minks, blinking their beady little eyes and just waiting to be insulted.

Exeunt Winchesters, stage left.

It took Sam the better part of a day to track down what the hell was going on; Dean helped by going out for burgers and ice cream, in between vainly trying to teach Cas to sext—he wasn’t sure whether the angel was worse at the dirty talk or operating a cell phone. Then they’d headed back to Granger’s and managed to appease the beasts with lots of jovial bullshit about what totally huge fans they were of the whole weasel thing. 

Dean had been complimenting shiny coats for _hours_ , and he was pretty fucking sick of it.

***

“It’s not a weasel,” Sam says with relief. “It’s a cat.”

Dean crouches down to see for himself—indeed, hunched next to the rear tire is an gigantic orange tabby with a chewed-up ear. It blinks back eyes the same color as his own and emits a tiny mew.

"Move it, Heathcliff," he says. The cat doesn't move. "C'mon, git!"

"Dean! Don't yell, you'll just scare it." Sam puts on the weasel-flattery voice again, though this time he sounds sincere: "Hey, kittycat! Aren't you a handsome guy! Come here, kitty." He holds out a hand for the cat to sniff; it does so, then plows its forehead into Sam's palm, purring like a well-tuned engine. The ice broken, it's easy for Sam to scruff it gently and pull it out from under the vehicle.

"It's—he’s—got a collar," Sam says. “Oh, there’s a tag!”

"Thank God," grumbles Dean. "We can reunite him with whatever terminally single dame let him wander off. Maybe she'll reward us with beer money."

"Dean, honestly, just because you're gay now doesn't make it OK to say stuff like that about women."

"I'm not _gay_ , Sam. I'm just fucking Cas, not dudes in general."

"Thank you so much for putting it like that," says Sam, and frowns at the tag, which is shaped like a fish. "It says his name is Rhubarb. And he belonged to Curtis Granger."

"Okay, that is literally the worst pet name I have ever heard. I guess we take him to the pound?"

"Not at this hour we don't. We can look up a no-kill shelter in the morning, but he's gonna need a place indoors to stay tonight. Look at him, he's not a street cat." Indeed, Rhubarb seems to have decided Sam himself might be suitable lodging—he’s settled his prodigious hindquarters into the crook of one arm and draped his front paws over Sam's shoulder, green eyes squeezing shut in contentment.

"No. No way. You know I'm allergic."

"So we'll get you some Benadryl. For heaven's sake, Dean, have a little compassion."

"I have loads of compassion," says Dean, glowering at the cat, who simply keeps purring. Tentatively, he reaches out and scratches it between the ears; it stretches out one mammoth paw to pat him on the nose. "OK, dammit, that's cute. You can stay for tonight, cat. But I am not calling you Rhubarb."

***

Sam rounds up supplies from Granger's house—food, litterbox, a toy mouse with stuffing coming out of the seams—and, true to his word, runs them by a drugstore on the way back to the motel for allergy meds. Dean waits in the car, since Rhubarb is fast asleep with his chin propped on his thigh. He refuses to admit that this is adorable.

The feline's charms start to fade after he accidentally rubs his eye, and by the time they pull up to the motel he's well on his way to being a sneezy, teary mess. Still, he'd rather carry the cat than the litterbox.

"Jesus, what do you weigh, twenty pounds? Need to lay off the lasagna, Garfield." Dean deposits him on the room's threadbare easy chair and digs his phone out of his shirt pocket. "I'm gonna tell Cas to come over. Want me to tell him to pick up some beer?"

"Sure. Maybe make sure he doesn't get the donut-flavored stuff again? Your boyfriend has really girly taste in booze."

Sam is surprised but impressed that Dean no longer bothers to deny Cas is his boyfriend.

***

Soon, there's a familiar rustle, and then, "Hello, Dean," says Cas, setting down a six-pack. He smolders at him bluely for a full thirty seconds before asking "Dean, are you crying?" He shoots Sam a reproachful look, as though it must be _his_ fault.

"Hey, I didn't do anything!" protests Sam, at the same time Dean says, "No, I'm not crying, it's just allergies. It's the stupid cat."

"Cat? Oh!" cries Cas. "Hello, cat." The animal hops down off the chair he'd been ensconced upon and walks right up to the angel, settling down on his haunches and gazing up at him with adoration. Cas stares back down at him, a funny little smile quirking one side of his mouth.

"He wishes me to relay his thanks, and apologizes for making you sneeze," he says after a moment.

"What? Who?" asks Dean.

"The cat. He says that he was lonely, and cold, and the person who usually feeds him has not been home for some time. And that you two rescued him, and he hasn't purred so hard since he was a kitten."

"You can talk to animals, Cas? How has that never come up?"

"Not all animals, no. The whole Felidae family, though, and most bears, and sometimes ravens. And binturongs, of course."

"Yeah, of course, who can't? What the hell is a binturong?"

"The Asian bear-cat. Closely related to the civet, native to Indochina. Would you like to meet one? I'd be happy to facilitate that." He turns his gaze back to Dean, face shining with affection.

Dean grins back at him. "Sometime, sure. Right now you should come over here."

Cas brings him a beer without being asked, bends down to kiss him. Dean can't resist grabbing the lapels of his trenchcoat and pulling him closer, sliding his tongue inside the angel's mouth and smirking against the little moan Cas makes.

Sam coughs, loudly. "Hey, so, guys, I’m still here."

"Right. Uh, did you want to go do some reading or something?"

"Actually, I kind of had an idea about that? I mean, I wish I could say I’ve never been in a room where you were having sex before, Dean, but that ship sailed last century. So I wanted to run this by you. Step one.” Sam holds up two Benadryl, washes them down with his beer. “Step two.” He digs a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket and flicks it across the room at Dean.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a silence spell. Area of effect should be about a six-foot radius. Make all the ruckus you want inside, no one outside the spell should hear a damn thing. I’m 99% sure it’ll keep Cas’ voice from breaking shit, even.”

Dean’s flabbergasted. “Little brother, you are a goddamn genius. A goddamn prince among men.”

“And you’re a slut. I should’ve thought of this years ago.” Sam drains his beer. “I’ll conk out in around half an hour, OK? And in the morning we’ll pretend we never had this talk.”

***

"Is he asleep?" hisses Dean.

Cas bends over Sam's inert form and hovers one hand over his forehead. "Yes. Deeply asleep."

"OK, uh, let's try this spell, then? I still feel kinda bad, though. Fucking with someone else in the room is a young man's game."

"Are you saying you don't want to fuck me?"

As soon as the obscenity drops from Cas's mouth, Dean, is instantly, ridiculously hard. He shakes his head violently.

It's a straightforward spell: a few sigils, a brief incantation, a feather (Cas reaches between dimensions to pluck one of his own, a multicolored shimmer that reminds Dean of a slick of gasoline). Once the last word's spoken, the air shifts around them, feeling somehow heavier, as if a storm is brewing over their bed. 

"Does that mean it worked?"

Cas looks around. "We're surrounded by magic, yes. I can't tell whether it is indeed a sphere of silence, however."

"HEY SAMMY!" Dean shouts. "THAT HAIRCUT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE JONATHAN TAYLOR THOMAS!"

Nothing stirs in the other bed.

"I'd say it worked," says Dean with a smirk, and tugs his shirt off over his head. "C'mere, let's get under the covers."

Cas loosens his tie, starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I like Sam's hair," he says. "It reminds me of a horse's mane."

"You should tell him that," Dean laughs. He doffs his jeans and swings his legs under the sheets. Cas strips down to boxers and joins him, leaning into Dean's waiting mouth.

Dean’s always been a sucker for kissing, and Cas’s mouth is so warm and willing; it’s like tasting hot chocolate. He honestly has to force himself to move on, to free their hard-ons to rut against each other. “Hey,” he says, close to Cas’s ear, “can I top tonight? I haven’t gotten to do that yet.”

“You have been on top,” Cas purrs, grabbing Dean’s hips and thrusting upward. Dean bites his lips, memories of riding Cas’s marvelous cock like his life depended on it flooding through him, fiery as a belt of whiskey.

“No, I mean . . . can I penetrate you? Please.” Cas’s response is to take Dean’s hand off his stubbled cheek and move it down between his legs, to press up and into his perineum. The angel seems unprepared for how good that feels, and drops his head back with a guttural noise.

Dean lets out a whimper of his own, and reaches under the pillow for the lube he’s stashed there. With one wet finger, he circles Cas’s entrance before pushing in, just up to the first knuckle; Cas’s hips spasm, once, before he says, “More,” in a voice that is less request than command.

So Dean slides his finger in up to the hilt at a glacial pace, thwarting Cas’s efforts to drive himself onto it. “God, you’re so tight,” groans Dean, pumping in and out a bit more quickly than before—but still what he knows is maddeningly slow. “And _hot_. I can’t wait to be inside you, Cas.”

Cas just flings his head to one side, cants his pelvis harder into Dean’s touch, and demands, _“More.”_

Dean stops his movement with a grin. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a pushy bottom?”

The look in Cas’s eyes is approaching smiting intensity. “No, of course they have not. I said _more,_ Dean.” He grabs Dean’s hand, shoves another finger up his own ass, and yelps with delight.

Reveling in his ability to take the angel apart, Dean adds a third finger a moment later. He remembers something from his Internet research (yeah, he’s been studying gay sex how-tos online. Best for all concerned that Sam’s shown him how to clear the browser history), and makes a “come here” motion, feeling around for Cas’s prostate. He knows he’s found it when Cas gasps and then stops making noise altogether.

He’s rubbing against that sweet spot, firm but insistent, when there’s a soft but solid thunk on the mattress by his feet. And he freezes.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters. “I think the cat is on the bed.”

Cas shows no sign of having heard him; he plants his feet on either side of Dean's knees, and pushes the whole lower half of his body a foot off the bed, fucking down onto Dean's fingers with ruthless abandon. And he actually sobs when Dean pulls out and sits up--because yes, the cat is on the bed, padding right up to Cas's sweat-stricken face and licking the angel on the nose.

"Quit that, you little pervert," growls Dean. "Get off." 

Utterly unfazed, Rhubarb shoves his forehead against Cas's, and Dean can hear him purring from a distance, he's so enthusiastic about it. Cas's eyes popped open at the first rough swipe of kitty tongue, but his look of shock softened almost immediately, and now he reaches out to pet the cat, head to tail, smiling as he does so.

"Cas! Don't encourage him! We were in the middle of something, cat. People time--people and angel time. Not for kitties. Go spoon with Sam or something." He leans over and tries to pick him up, whereupon Rhubarb scratches the hell out of his forearm.

"GodDAMN it, you cockblocking little beast!!"

"He's not doing it on purpose, Dean. We're giving off extremely strong pheromones at the moment, and his sense of smell is so acute that he's somewhat intoxicated by them."

"Ugh, that actually makes it worse. CAT! You are not allowed to get drunk on our sex chemicals. That is gross," says Dean, frowning at the welts rising on his arm. "I'm not even hard anymore, thanks to you. Stupid animal."

"We don't have to have sex, Dean," Cas says. "We could do something else we've never done before--I could stay the night."

"Really?" Dean knows he lights up at that. Usually they just cuddle until Dean falls asleep, and then Cas flies off for important angel reasons. "But you don't sleep."

Cas shrugs. "I can pretend to. Sleep is just a collection of physiological responses, after all, and I can make my body duplicate them. I would just like to be with you, Dean."

"OK. I mean--of course OK. I mean, I'm really glad." Dean kisses him for a bit, then turns his attention to Rhubarb, who's settling down by Cas's chest. "You can't stay on the bed, though, cat, you'll keep me up all night sneezing."

"No he won't," says Cas, putting two fingers to Dean's forehead and pulsing a tiny morsel of grace through Dean's body, like an unheard soundwave. "You are no longer allergic."

Indeed, Dean's sinuses are suddenly clear. "That's amazing! Thank you so much!" Then, seized with a ridiculous urge, he buries his face in Rhubarb's velvet-soft, vibrating flank, inhaling the dusty scent of the cat's fur. "You're actually a pretty good cat, cat."

"He says thank you," murmurs Cas.

Dean settles down by Cas's side, putting an arm around the angel's waist. "So is his name really Rhubarb? Or does he have a secret cat name?"

“I can’t pronounce his true name with these vocal cords, but it translates roughly to ‘Napper of Mighty Naps and Nibbler of Unguarded Sandwiches.’”

“I’m not calling you that either, cat,” are Dean’s last words before he falls asleep.

***

The next morning, Sam keeps his eyes closed for a few minutes after he awakes, fervently hoping that his roommates have remembered to put their clothes back on. He's surprised, to say the least, to look over and see the trio curled up under the hideous bedspread: Dean is sandwiched between Cas, whose hand grips his shoulder as if he's going to leave another scar, and Rhubarb, who's managing to take up the remaining third of the bed despite the spatial impossibility of his doing so. 

It's a freaking Instagram moment if he's ever seen one. And he has the weirdest feeling that their strange little family has acquired a fourth.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my indulgent husband, to whom I made an offhand comment about using our sex life as inspiration for fic; immediately, he put on his best Dean Winchester growl and said, "Goddamn it, there's a cat on the bed." (He also gave me the Jonathan Taylor Thomas line.)
> 
> Credit is also due to my amazing Dungeons & Dragons group, who recently had to fight off a band of enraged weasels we'd accidentally insulted; and, of course, every cat I've had to chase off the bed in the middle of sex. You are all very good kitties, but that is People Time.


End file.
